t possess the power of feeling an
acuteness of joy or grief. No woman could have it who had not already
tasted the sweets and bitters of experience.

But if Mary could feel, how could she endure the life that was hers? As
he went slowly back to his game, Peignton had his first glimpse into the
tragedy of the life of a woman to whom nature has bequeathed a sensitive
heart, and a plain and unattractive exterior.

Sunday in the Mallison _menage_ was not at the best of times a cheerful
occasion, though hitherto Teresa's society had made it bearable; under
the new conditions it became a penance difficult to endure. The one
o'clock dinner was invariably the same. Roast beef and Yorkshire
pudding, a pie made of the fruit in season, flanked by custard in
glasses; biscuits and cheese, and a sketchy dessert. Mrs Mallison
invariably discussed the morning's sermon. Teresa invariably disagreed,
and the Major preserved a dejected silence.

To Peignton's supersensitive sight it had appeared sometimes as if each
daughter had assumed a startling likeness to a separate parent. Mary
had her father's features, her father's shrinking air. Teresa--why had
he never noticed it before?--Teresa was a youthful replica of her
mother. Given another twenty years she would develop into the same
stout, bustling matron. His flesh crept at the thought of sitting
opposite to her in the Major's place.

In the afternoon Teresa suggested reading in the garden as an
alternative to the usual walk; she also announced that Mr Hunter and
his sister were "coming in" to tea, an innovation in the day's programme
for which Peignton was devoutly thankful. He had met the young doctor
and his sister, and knew them to be lively, talkative young people,
eminently capable of rolling the conversation ball. Their presence
would prevent personalities, and keep the talk away from dreaded topics.
Never in his life had he accorded a more cordial welcome to comparative
strangers.

The table was set beneath a tree in the garden, and Teresa in her white
dress made an attractive figure against the green of the background.
Her hair was carefully dressed, a touch of blue at the throat
intensified the blue of her eyes; there was in her manner that touch of
self-consciousness and artificiality which to a discerning eye bespoke
the presence of an admiring male. Roused to a momentary interest,
Peignton realised that the admirer was not himself in this instance, but
Hun